


Trade-offs

by SharkGirlNirea



Series: Mysteries of the Past Fics [6]
Category: Criminal Case (Video Game), Criminal Case: Mysteries of the Past
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Bad Parenting, Banquet Planning, Discussed Parent-Child Relationships, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Cheating, In fact this fic is a set up for important things that'll happen in Ivory Hill, Marriage of Convenience, Mysteries of the Past Case #32: Civil Blood, Mysteries of the Past District 6: Crimson Banks, Political Alliances, Spoilers for Mysteries of the Past District 9: Ivory Hill, Victorian era, financial abuse, political scheming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28931334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharkGirlNirea/pseuds/SharkGirlNirea
Summary: Marrying into the Rochester family comes with its benefits and consequences. Being forced to briefly abandon her business to make the trip to Ivory Hill to plan political banquets is one such consequence for Veronica Rochester.Planning a political banquet is hardly a simple thing.In politics, people are always scheming and looking out for themselves.
Relationships: I only tagged it bc they're married, Veronica Rochester & Lissa Avery, Veronica Rochester & Original Male Character, Veronica Rochester & Samson Drake, Veronica Rochester/Malcolm Rochester, but there's no love between them, please don't ship it
Series: Mysteries of the Past Fics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975516
Kudos: 3





	Trade-offs

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so fair warning: this story is pretty unlike any of my past fics, meaning murder/crime in general isn't really prominent in this fic. This fic is more of a character study of Veronica Rochester because it kinda annoys me that Mysteries of the Past didn't develop her as much as the other members of her family, so this fic is my attempt to kind of explore her character. This fic doesn't really read like a CC fic, so if you're looking for a crime thriller, I'd recommend giving this fic a skip.

Veronica nudged the Flying Squad out of her drawing room with a clear air of dismissal. She hadn’t killed Mario Fortuna. Was she somewhat relieved he was dead? Perhaps. She would hardly miss him getting on his high horse again and again about her violating prohibition. If everyone, ranging from businessman to alcoholics, were desperate for a drink, who was she to stop them?

Veronica rubbed her temples, slightly displacing her otherwise curled, immaculate hair as she attempted to ward off her increasing headache. Perhaps at some other time, she would have attempted to be more cordial to the police, as they were a useful ally to have in the midst of the mob war gripping Crimson Banks, but now, that was difficult to focus on because of the cramping and nausea clenching her stomach and throat that had yet to abate. 

The milk she had drunk that morning had certainly been spoiled. When she and her valet, the closest thing she had to a business partner, had begun feeling ill and had connected their symptoms to the somewhat-sour milk they had drunk that morning, Veronica had interrogated her cooks to deduce the culprit behind the poisoned food. One of her cooks had blamed his assistant, who had brought him the milk, and so Veronica had promptly fired the incompetent assistant--what had she been thinking, bringing forward odd-smelling milk?--but even with the assistant gone, Veronica obviously still felt quite sick and needed to lie down. She made to exit the drawing room, slightly hunched over, intending to return to her room. She had to organize several deliveries of alcohol to various locations, but she couldn’t do so while feeling ill.

As a matter of fact, the people she sold her now-illegal alcohol to would perhaps pay her a bit more than she normally charged if she promised that, when the time came for the next delivery of alcohol, Veronica’s patron would receive their order much quicker. She was sure any other source still selling alcohol was likely doing the same. Even though alcohol was illegal, numerous people were desperate to still buy it from some type of source. Veronica and her competition would mark up the prices of their alcohol beyond what they normally sold for--after all, producing and distributing alcohol illegally required much more effort, skill, danger, and craft than during normal times.

“Mistress Rochester?”

Veronica straightened her posture as Enoch, her valet, entered the room. Enoch was quite skilled at masking discomfort and pain--as any proficient servant or businessman should be--but, despite that, he was also clearly feeling ill.

“Yes?”

“Would you like me to organize the alcohol deliveries? I know you often do, but forgive me--you do not look well.”

“Neither do you. That idiotic assistant…But I would rather you not vomit onto my notes, calculations, maps, and list of names. If you would like, you can go lie down somewhere. Although….there is one more thing you ought to do.”

“What is that?”

“The murder of an unimportant Irish taxi cab driver is one thing, but the murder of a community figure such as Mario Fortuna is another. Clearly, the police have no control over the mobs and their wars. The mob war is getting utterly out of hand…reiterate to the staff guarding my warehouses that protecting my stock of alcohol is of utmost importance. Chase off anyone from either mob that approaches the warehouses.”

“Of course, Mistress Rochester. I shall remind them…. Uh.” He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth.

“Do that quickly, then rest. You won’t be any help if you’re sick.”

After Enoch had departed the room, Veronica groaned slightly as she retreated to her bedroom, the nausea coating her mouth difficult to ignore. She hardly wanted to organize alcohol deliveries at the moment. Either way, yes, her customers’ deliveries of alcohol being ever-so-slightly late would likely increase their desperation for Veronica’s product. She was in no danger of being reported to the police or mayor. Mayor Castletown was firmly wrapped around Malcolm’s finger, and Veronica wasn’t concerned with prosecution from the police, due to their preoccupation with the mob war.

Either way, even if the mob war ended but prohibition did not, Veronica had seen her customers as she exchanged her alcohol for their money. Their feverish eyes looking at her bottles of alcohol, quickly snatching and holding the bottles as if nothing else mattered. And, to some of them, nothing else _did_ matter. Veronica sold alcohol and wine of varying levels of quality to different people and different social classes. She had seen some of her customers in the streets or now-vacant bars, surrounded by her bottles, sobbing, muttering to themselves, or draining the remaining drops of alcohol from the bottles with shaking hands, not noticing the world around them. Veronica never mentioned to her customers that she had seen them. If one day, they were in the depths of sorrow, surrounded by glass bottles as broken as their spirits and the next day they were frantic to purchase from Veronica, she would complete the transaction without a change in her behavior.

As she shut her bedroom door, her gaze fell on the draft of a letter on her maplewood desk she had received nearly three weeks ago and started writing several days ago.

Well. Perhaps she could write a paragraph or two more before retiring to bed. Writing to her son required far less skill and concentration than managing her business endeavors.

She retrieved an ink bottle and feather pen from her desk drawer and reviewed what she had previously written.

_Dear Archibald,_

_I thank you for the ruby earrings. They seem to be as lovely as you say Switzerland is._

_My business is_

**** She dipped the pen into the ink and continued.

_still successful. You may have heard of the recent prohibition imposed by the mayor. As you would expect, everyone from drunks to our fellow elite will still be desperate for a drink, or at the very least, will need drinks at their parties. Prohibition has hardly stopped me. My employees are still continuing production, and I am still using drinks I have fermented for years. Wine grows better with age, as you know._

_When you--_

**** “Mistress Rochester?” the voice of one of her maids called from the other side of the door.

“What is it?” Veronica called sharply. “I am occupied.”

“Mistress Rochester…your husband is calling.”

_Oh. What awful timing._

“I will be there momentarily.”

* * *

“I only have two weeks’ notice?” Veronica said, speaking through her teeth with forced restraint. Normally, she was excellent at controlling her emotions while speaking with her husband; she had mastered speaking with him in clipped, flat tones. However, because talking with Malcolm had only worsened her headache and increased her desire to lie down, her normally-immaculate self-control was waning. 

“I would have called you earlier, but I’ve been occupied,” Malcolm’s voice said. “The mayor had requested that I--”

“Nevermind what the mayor requested. Why does this banquet have to be in two Wednesdays?”

“You recall Samson Drake, the lobbyist I’ve worked with for the past several months, no? When we were discussing policies and goals for the future the other day, he began hinting he’d like to set up a banquet to honor me and our family’s accomplishments, to garner approval and support for our family--to remind Concordians of our accolades. Doing so would likely reduce riots and backlash when we reclaim Concordia, so I informed him my schedule was clear in two Wednesdays. Besides, with your banquet-throwing skills, my assistant’s willingness to do any task put before her, and Drake’s passion for pleasing me, the three of you would make a spectacular team. I have full confidence you three could prepare something suitable and appropriate.”

“Now is hardly an ideal time,” Veronica said, her grip on the telephone tightening. “I have to organize deliveries to my patrons, which takes more time now because of prohibition, complete an inventory of my materials and ingredients, organize my finances, and--”

“Well, you must be over here in Ivory Hill by this Friday.”

“I may need an entire week to--”

“Friday, Veronica. You mentioned your finances. _I_ of course, could step in and organize your--well, really, _my_ money--and hand off your business. I am your husband, after all.”

Veronica pinched her lips together, exhaling in a careful, controlled manner. Her business was her solace, and a much-need relief from forced involvement in Malcolm’s political games. He expected her to cater to his whims, but Veronica had not worked for Horatio when he owned the distillery and been recognized and rewarded for her ambition and talent for nothing. Horatio had known, she, of all his employees, deserved ownership of the business. When, in return for ownership of his business, Veronica had agreed to marry Horatio’s nephew, Veronica had known what she was becoming involved in. Even if unification with Malcolm, and, by extension, his family, meant Veronica now had a role to play in their political advancements, it also meant she now had unlimited resources and money. 

As much as briefly leaving her business in the hands of her valet was hardly ideal, trade-offs had to be made in order to protect her business.

“All right. I will arrive by Friday.”

* * *

Although Veronica was still slightly nauseous the next morning, her feelings of illness were minor enough that she was able to talk to Enoch.

“Malcolm called me away to Ivory Hill,” she said. “You’ll have to organize the alcohol deliveries, take an inventory of our supplies, and ensure neither Irish nor Italians steal anything from my warehouses. If you or anyone else sees one of them, shoot them.”

“....to kill?”

“I--” Veronica paused, frowning. “I would rather not invoke the wrath of either of the mobs, even if they would have to be incredibly foolish to attack a woman of my standing. Use your best judgement--whatever you or anyone else thinks will best protect the warehouses.”

“Very well. Also. The cooks would like to interview for another assistant when you’re gone.”  
“Let them.”

“Who are we selling your product to next?”

Veronica unlocked the door of her French kingwood marble cabinet--a tall, handsome, chestnut-colored thing adorned with intricate carvings of geometric circles. Pulling open the cabinet’s door, she retrieved her parchment detailing her list of customers in organized, inked rows. She removed the velvet, silky covering from the drawing room’s oak table and placed the list of names onto the table.

For the remainder of the day, Veronica and Enoch called the people on the list who she knew owned phones, organizing times in which they could purchase their drinks, discussed her business’s finances--should they increase the price of the drinks they sold? They weren’t the only people illegally distributing drinks during prohibition, so increasing prices too much could result in a loss of clients--and prepared lists of items to inventory.

At the end of the day as her staff packed her belongings for her trip to Ivory Hill, she glanced at the letter to her son before folding it and tucking it into her handbag. She could finish the letter while being driven to Ivory Hill. She had more important matters to attend to.

* * *

The next day, as Veronica prepared to enter her automobile, one of her maids stopped her, presenting a letter to Veronica. 

“A letter from your son just arrived, Mistress Rochester.”

Veronica opened the letter as her driver began the journey to Ivory Hill. She skimmed the letter, intending to thoroughly respond to it later, when something snatched her attention.

_“....my professors, of course, recognized my superior intellect compared to my other classmates. They told me I am the youngest graduate in nearly fifty years from the Faculty of Law program….”_

Faculty of _Law?_ What did that have to do with taking over a business? 

The letter crinkled slightly in her hand. Perhaps a discussion with her husband was needed after all.

* * *

As Veronica arrived at Malcolm’s manner, Lissa Avery, Malcolm’s assistant, greeted her by the manor’s gate.

“Hello, Lady Rochester!” Lissa said. “May I help you with something?” Lissa had evidently been standing in the warm, muggy, August air for a while, as indicated by the light sheen of sweat on her forehead. Despite that however, her smile remained as bright as the gleam of the sapphire in her gold-plated necklace. 

In Veronica’s opinion, Lissa was a bit too cheerful. She was far more useful and competent than Malcolm’s previous assistants, but something about her extreme willingness to do almost any task put before her by any member of the Rochester family was one of the reasons Veronica suspected Lissa was far less innocent than she appeared, and was simply attaching herself to the Rochesters for her own personal benefit.

However, even if she was a shameless social climber, she was a useful person to foist tasks onto, and therefore, not showing any signs of the unflattering things Veronica had just thought of Lissa, Veronica said, “Where is Malcolm?”

“In his study.”

Allowing Lissa and the rest of Malcolm’s staff to handle her belongings, Veronica entered the manor. Even more so than her previous visits, Malcolm’s manor was adorned with hunting trophies and evidence he knew little about pleasing color combinations regarding interior design. He had yet to learn that a striped tiger’s pelt thrown on a checkered floor surrounded by green walls, silver carvings on said walls, curtains and couches of varying shades of red, and Roman columns standing inconveniently in front of bookshelves was not sophisticated, organized decor.

Veronica pushed open the doors to Malcolm’s study and cleared her throat.

Malcolm looked from his desk. Veronica hadn’t spoken face-to-face with him in months, but he looked the same as he always did. Black suit jacket. Neatly combed, brown hair a few shades darker than her own hair, slicked to one side. Blue eyes that stood in sharp contrast to his darker hair. Of course, whenever he addressed the public, his eyes brightened and his staged smile created the perfect image of a friendly, open, politician. But when addressing her, his eyes were almost always glazed over with boredom.

Well, interacting with him hardly caused her joy, either.

“Veronica. What do you want?”

“I have to talk to you about something.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “No, you have to be planning the banquet. Weren’t you the one who complained about lacking enough time to plan? I’d imagine you would want to coordinate with Samson Drake as soon as possible.”

“I do. But there is something about our son I have to--”

“I am _busy,_ Veronica. I am a senator; I have public appearances to maintain and events to attend. I doubt Archie is in any mortal peril, and therefore I would advise you to remove yourself from my office.” He had left his chair and approached Veronica, standing inches from her. Veronica monitored eye contact with him, her calmness combating Malcolm’s clear attempt to intimidate her as he said, “If there is something you absolutely _must_ talk to me about, wait until I’m eating dinner in the early evening.”

“Fine,” Veronica said after a few seconds of silence. “I’ll talk to you then.” Arguing with Malcolm now would yield nothing good, and besides, he was right: she had planning to attend to.

She accepted the trade-off--planning the banquet for a moment of Malcolm’s time in order for her to defend and advocate for her business--as she left to telephone Samson Drake.

* * *

“Hello, Lady Rochester!” Samson Drake said over the phone. “How may I help you?”

“You wish to plan a banquet for my husband, correct?”

“Ah, yes, I believe he would appreciate such a thing!”

“What do you have in mind?”

“About three years have passed since his reelection, no? In order to mark the halfway point of his second term, commemorating the improvements he’s fostered and his many accomplishments would certainly raise support for him and your family in your future political endeavors?”

_Does he know that Malcolm and Horatio are planning on reclaiming Concordia?_

_They’ll discard him after he’s served his purpose._

Deciding any feelings of humiliation, betrayal, or anger Drake would feel upon being cast to the wayside were hardly her concern, Veronica promised to telephone him later.

Malcolm’s accomplishments.

Hmmm.

Every year, Malcolm donated money to the World Exhibition. Considering earlier in the year, when multiple inventions were sabotaged by Eleanor Halsted, Malcolm had helped Leopold reimburse the inventors, she had to draw attention to that. In fact, Malcolm had publicly denounced Halsted, bought mechanical parts for several victims of Halsted’s sabotage, wishing them the best in next year’s World Exhibition before the inventors returned to their home countries.

Malcolm had also denounced Archibald’s…misbehavior in Elysium Fields, but it was best to avoid drawing attention to _that_ scandal.

Veronica began to smoke, letting ash from her long cigarette to fall onto the table in her room. A servant could clean the desk later. The room had likely been hurriedly dusted and tidied before she arrived, anyways. Considering she and Malcolm slept in separate rooms, the room likely was not often cleaned. Clearing the desk of cigarette ash would hardly matter to Malcolm’s staff.

Last December, when a portion of New Haven burned down, Malcolm had donated substantial funds to the reconstruction of the district, and had assisted the mayor and deputy mayor in organizing a humanitarian group to clean and rebuild New Haven by advertising the group and offering to pay the workers who were sacrificing their time to rebuild and salvage the burned, destroyed portions of the district.

Perhaps, as part of the entertainment of the banquet, the mayor and Leopold could speak about Malcolm’s good deeds. Veronica knew Leopold and Malcolm’s relationship had soured ever since Leopold had discovered Malcolm’s tendency to visit brothels, but Leopold didn’t know Veronica knew of her husband’s debauchery. Leopold likely pitied her. If Veronica asked him to speak at the banquet on Malcolm’s behalf, Leopold’s good nature would struggle to deny the request of his niece-in-law. 

Veronica rested her pen on the paper she was using to plan for the banquet, taking care to avoid staining her white gloves with ink. Those examples would work well, but she needed examples from the first two years of Malcolm’s second term.

She slowly drummed her fingers on the desk as she mentally reviewed Malcolm’s senatorial career.

Some months after his reelection, Malcolm had spoken at the graduation of the law students attending the University of Concordia and had donated funds for the remodeling of the law building, where he himself had attended school. Perhaps the dean of the university would be willing to speak at the banquet.

But for his second year….

Ah.

Malcolm enjoyed taking walks around the outskirts of Concordia, and in doing so, he often met other Concordians. Malcolm’s reputation of a personable, friendly man was enforced due to his willingness to converse with anyone he met while walking. Once, while walking near the outskirts of the city near the forest, Malcolm had met with and began talking with a gentleman who had suddenly collapsed. Malcolm had carried the man to his automobile, sped him to the hospital, and frequently inquired about the man’s condition until his recovery. Veronica was unable to recall the man’s name, but she was certain Malcolm did. If the man could speak on Malcolm’s behalf, the entertainment portion of the banquet--speeches from Leopold, Mayor Castletown, the university’s dean, and the man Malcolm had rescued--needed no further attention after Veronica placed the appropriate calls and requests.

Budgeting was hardly a concern when one was a part of the Rochester dynasty, meaning the next part of planning--picking a venue, deciding what food to serve, and selecting decorations--was not plagued by monetary constraints.

Still, Veronica hoped Samson Drake had ideas for such matters.

* * *

“Your husband has finished his meal,” a servant said, peering into Veronica’s room, where she was compiling a guest list. “If you would like to speak with him, now is the best time.”

Evening had just begun to manifest itself. Veronica hardly wanted to dine with Malcolm, and was relieved he tended to dine early, where she preferred to eat much later. Such different meal times eliminated any unneeded reason to spend her valuable time with him.

Veronica departed her room. Samson Drake at least had the decency to suggest a venue, thus saving time Veronica would have spent attempting to book a suitable location. Drake had suggested holding the banquet at a reception center a mile or two from City Hall, and, luckily, the reception center had a vacancy in their schedule--that, or, due to the Rochesters’ social statues, they had hastened to cancel any previous appointments.

Servants were clearing away Malcolm’s dishes as he sat at the table, smoking his Javanese pipe. Veronica pulled one of the mahogany dining chairs from the table and sat.

Malcolm set down his pipe onto the silk, crimson tablecloth. “What do you want? We both have schedules to keep.”

Malcolm truly was a talented actor. Whenever Veronica was in Ivory Hill, he spoke highly of her and her business, always thanking her at events for the time she dedicated to supporting him. Perhaps her acting skills were not as refined as her husband’s, but Veronica played her role well enough, smiling when appropriate, forcing herself to show open affection to Malcolm because they both knew the public enjoyed seeing such an obvious case of matrimonial affection. But, of course, when they were out of the public eye, Malcolm and Veronica abandoned their act. At best, their greetings and interactions were clipped and polite. Malcolm had wanted a son and was overjoyed when Veronica had given birth to one. However, Veronica doubted Malcolm was happier than her--because she had given birth to a suitable male heir, there was no further need to sleep in the same bed--room--oftentimes, home--as Malcolm, and if Malcolm wished to spend his leisure time with harlots, it was of little concern to her.

“I received a letter from Archibald,” Veronica said.

“And?”

“He informed me his professors at his university told him he will be the youngest graduate from law school in fifty years. What does graduating from law school have to do with running a business?”

“Ah. You figured it out.”

“You told me that--”

“Did you honestly think that I would allow my heir--my only son--to waste away his life selling alcohol?”

“Running a distillery is hardly a waste--”

“I’m sure running a distillery is a valuable business venture, for you. But you can easily find an heir, so to speak, to pass your business onto when you retire. But I have always had a greater influence in Archie’s life. I need him.”

“Archibald is also _my_ son--”

“Veronica. You only see our son as a tool to support your business. You have no emotional, meaningful, motherly attachment to him. Listen to yourself. You call Archie by his full first name. Don’t you know he dislikes being called by his full name?”

“His name has nothing to do with this discussion! I have been planning on ways to integrate him into my business--”

“Before I decide what to do with him when he returns, he can assist you. And even then, that will likely be unpleasant for him. Those factories in Crimson Banks emit an astonishing amount of fumes, smoke, and pollution. Do you honestly think Archie would be able to tolerate being exposed to such pollution so frequently with his asthma?”

“I thought he had more of a control over his asthma.”

“He _does_ , but he hasn’t exactly cured himself. But, even if he wasn’t asthmatic, he belongs with me in Ivory Hill.”

Veronica hated losing control over her emotions, especially in front of her husband, and so she pressed her lips into a white slash, regaining her composure, before saying through her gritted teeth, “I have been trying to deduce how to most effectively pass my business to him, and now I must find another heir. If our family loses a business--”

“Don’t be melodramatic, Veronica, you have enough time to find a successor,” Malcolm said, gesturing dismissively. “And don’t bother invoking our family name. If you cannot appoint a successor for your business, I know someone in our family could take control of the distillery.”

“Who?!” Veronica said, aggressively hitting the table in spite of herself. “Larry? What does he know about responsibility? He would bankrupt the business within days! Rockley has his own business! Clarissa has her own responsibilities with managing her bank! Your sister knows nothing about business! Who, other than me, is suitable for running my business; knowing what’s best for it?”

“Calm down, Veronica,” Malcolm said, his own voice rising. “Find someone to pass your business to if you would like to have some control over its future. But either way, Archie will not be taking over your business. I know what is best for my son, and it is not spending time selling alcohol. It is gaining political influence and doing what needs to be done to secure our family’s future as Concordia’s leaders. If you wanted a blood relative--a descendant--to take control of your business, perhaps you should have agreed to produce more children.”

Veronica dug her nails into her palms, clamping her teeth shut, avoiding looking at Malcolm. She had never wanted to be a mother. Conceiving and bearing one child had been painful and unpleasant enough. Having a child was a sacrifice she was willing to make on the behalf of her business, but not having the slightest say in what her son could do to help her? Everything was just about what Malcolm wanted; what best suited his desires.

“Perhaps you could find an ambitious woman to pass your business to,” Malcolm said. “Such a woman could marry Archie. Archie could then have a say--influence--in your business, as your successor’s husband.”

His voice calm, level, and rather cheerful, Malcolm lifted his pipe from the table and stood, smiling, as he said, “I would suggest continuing to organize that banquet as soon as possible.”

* * *

“Hello, Lady Rochester!” Samson Drake said into the telephone one of his servants had handed off to him. “How may I be of assistance?”

“I have compiled a guest list,” Veronica said. “I’ve just sent Malcolm’s assistant to your home. You are more familiar with my husband’s political acquaintances, however, so while I organize the food orders, decorations, and entertainment, I recommend you organize the seating and ensure the guests are placed in ideal locations.”

“Of course, Lady Rochester. Can I be of any other help?”

“No. Goodbye.” Veronica hung up the phone.

Samson set the phone back into its place, his smile somewhat lessening. Veronica was hardly as cordial and charismatic as her husband, nor was she a politician, but, nonetheless, she was a valuable ally to assist Samson in honoring Malcolm and his achievements. 

Out of all the politicians Samson had ever lobbied to, Malcolm was easily the most receptive to Samson’s advocacy for widely-available education. It was perfectly logical, too--both men and women in the Rochester dynasty were highly educated. Malcolm’s wayward son--well, wayward by Samson and the law’s standards; not so much by Malcolm’s standards (Samson wasn’t an idiot, he knew it was hardly a coincidence death or other misfortune always befell Malcolm’s political rivals)--was currently attending university overseas. It was clear the Rochesters valued education.

When the Rochesters transformed Concordia into a family city-state, Samson would quite willingly accept the position Malcolm had offered him as the head of the Board of Education. Samson had to fight to receive a quality secondary education and become a lobbyist, and, while he had never been as wealthy as the Rochesters, he and his family had almost always been able to hire a small staff to cook and clean. Once Samson had more control over Concordia’s educational affairs, even the lower class would have access to high-quality education.

Therefore, he had to be a valuable ally to all of the Rochesters, regardless of how pleasant they were.

And if Malcolm’s political rivals died, vanished, or were imprisoned in the asylum…. Well, it was unfortunate, but they were sacrifices needed to propel the Rochesters and Samson upwards, if only for the benefit of thousands of other Concordians.

* * *

As darkness finally and fully encompassed the night sky, Veronica put down the telephone.

She had spent the past few hours writing lists of food orders for Lissa to deliver and calling the needed people to present at the banquet. She had just finished convincing Leopold to support Malcolm at the banquet. It had taken some wheedling, Veronica’s best acting, and playing the role of a doting wife, which, in the aftermath of her and Malcolm’s disagreement, had not been easy. Luckily, her acting over the telephone was sufficient--or perhaps Leopold was simply naive--and Leopold had agreed to speak on his nephew’s behalf.

But now, Veronica was exhausted. She had been forced to cram preparations that would usually take a few weeks into about a week and a half, and after her very long day, it was quite clear she needed to sleep.

As she retired to her room, her eyes fell onto the letter she had begun to Archibald. 

Even if he did briefly assist her in her alcohol business, he would ultimately be working in the realm of politics.

She crumpled the beginnings of the letter--Archibald would likely be returning to Concordia shortly, anyways--and dropped the letter into her wastebasket. Either way, once he returned to Concordia, she would likely see him at the same frequency as his father. Perhaps their son wasn’t keen in entering the world of politics, but his wishes ultimately mattered little. Veronica hadn’t wanted to be a mother nor prepare banquets for her husband, but she also had little choice.

She hadn’t wanted to give Archibald over to Malcolm, but she had little choice in that matter, either.

Malcolm often got what he wanted.


End file.
